Before I Sleep
by Morauko
Summary: Sequel to C&K. After over a decade away, Blake Wesley returns to the world he once called his own. But though all he wants is to live a quiet life, things are never quite that simple when it comes to the man once known as Harry Potter. ABANDONED
1. Prologue: Moving In

**A/N: From the reader response, apparantly romance isn't what y'all desire. Which is fine, as it's really not my genre of expertise, hehe. Henceforth, the fic uploaded here shall be gen, so if you want to read my attempts at romance you must wander over to my LJ, wherin I go by ladyphoenixia. Hope you all enjoy the very-slightly-rewritten (as the slash was only ever gonna be peripheral) version of BIS. **

**Before I Sleep**

Sequel to 'Of Cabbages and Kings'

_The woods are lovely, dark and deep  
But I have promises to keep  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.  
-Robert Frost: Stopping by Woods on Snowy Evening_

**Prologue: Moving in**

"Well, that's the last of it, then." Breathing an audible sigh of relief, he almost carelessly dropped the heavy box onto the floor to join its fellows, his right hand reaching up to massage his neck. "I still don't understand why we couldn't shrink the things, you know," the blonde complained, though unable to hide his smile.

Rolling his eyes, the other man deposited his own box gently on the floor of the living room, before taking over the massaging, to his companion's evident relief. "You complain too much," he replied, his hazel eyes sparkling with laughter as his companion seemed to melt beneath his fingertips. "And you know very well that shrinking charms have a nasty habit of damaging non-magical objects…"

"Yes, yes, you've only told me that about a thousand times," the blonde replied in amusement, as he stepped away to examine the room. Like most of the small house, it was decorated in simple yet tasteful fashion, retaining the natural shades of the wood over the garish wall coverings and carpets favoured by much of the Wizarding population. To his surprise, the warm colours were a pleasant change after the austere shades of Malfoy Manor, where young Draco had previously lived.

"I know," Harry Potter replied, easily deciphering his friend's expression, a skill few others could boast. "I never expected to live anywhere else, and here I am, in a little wooden house, in a Wizarding village, on the other side of the continent. And I only lived there for fourteen years, I can't imagine how it would be for you, leaving your manor…"

"No, no, it's not _that_," Draco replied. "It's just… it's hard to believe, after so many futile attempts at persuasion, that this is really happening. You're really here. You know, I was almost giving up hope on you. You were so determined to stay in that little muggle town…"

Harry smiled. "It's going to be strange, being in this world again, I won't deny. And, well, there're so many memories…" his expression turned slightly sadder, and Draco enveloped him in a hug, receiving a warm glance in gratitude.

"I know, Harry. But as I've been telling you, you can't keep hiding from your past."

"I know, Draco, I know. It took me a while to understand, but you're right, the Wizarding world is a part of me. I'm going to miss St Just, though; the quiet of the meadows, the glistening grey of the sky against the ocean, the long walks along the dunes, and of course my rock… and though I know Rommy will be happy with old Mrs Lancaster, and that he'd never be able to handle the move at his age, let alone apparition, I'm going to miss him too…"

"You'll be alright, Harry," Draco replied. "I mean, it's not like you were ever really friends with the people. And though your new neighbours won't know who you are to begin with, maybe you can make a new start, in the world you belong."

Harry smiled. "Well, there is that. I don't think I could cope with being the Boy-Who-Lived again, though."

"Well, you won't have to. So, now that's settled, let's check out our bedrooms!" Draco grinned, eyes almost twinkling in excitement. It never failed to amuse Harry how much Draco looked like Albus when he was happy, though of course he would never tell him. Especially, surprisingly, now his eyes were silver, unlike the blue they had been when they first met… or re-met, he should say.

As Draco almost ran – he would call it a dignified stride, of course – up the wooden stairs to the attic of sorts in which their rooms would be situated, Harry took one more look at his house. Twenty years ago, if someone was to tell him that one day he'd be living with Draco Malfoy of all people, he'd have laughed in their faces. Five years ago, the very thought of moving into Hogsmeade would have been beyond thought, as he shied away from any contact with the world that was once his.

Who would have thought that a single chance meeting could have changed his life so much? And yet, now, he couldn't even imagine living without Draco. He had found everything he was missing and, for the first time since his fourth year, he was genuinely happy.

An indistinct yell from upstairs disturbed him from his recollections, and he quickly bolted up to the top, only to see Draco standing in what seemed complete shock.

"What is it, Draco?" he asked in concern. Though Draco was not usually one to startle, the most random things dismayed him, and it was impossible to tell whether to be legitimately concerned sometimes, causing Harry his fair share of near-heart attacks.

"My room…" Draco said softly. "It's… it's in _Gryffindor_ colours!"

Blinking, Harry looked around. Like the rest of the house, the floors were made of the finest mahogany, though a maroon rug covered much of the floor space, delicately decorated with shades of silver and gold. This was enhanced by the maroon bedspread and the predominantly mahogany furniture, as sparse as it was in these first days, though Harry had every faith that Draco would soon begin to personalise the space.

"I don't see…" he began, bewildered.

"It's _crimson_. And look, there, on that rug, that's _gold_ embroidery." He pointed frantically, seemingly blind to the equally present silver, and Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"It's _maroon_, Draco, and I thought it went well with the floor which, I might add, is a beautiful shade of wood that I'm not going to let you die or carpet away, no matter how you plead. You can hardly say that Slytherin greens fit, and I thought you _liked_ the warm colours," he added in slight confusion. "You did say that you liked the colours downstairs… it's the _same thing_, Draco!"

"Yes, but it's my _bedroom_," Draco stressed. "I'm not going to live in a room decorated in Gryffindor colours!" he added petulantly, and Harry rolled his eyes.

"It's not like you're going to spend more than one night a week here _anyway,_" he began, as Draco would of course room at the school during the week due to his professorial role. But when he showed no signs of relenting, he drew his wand – Holly, Phoenix feather, still as loyal as the day it was sold – and changed the bedspread to a deep forest green, almost black, and the rug to the same. "Happy now?" he asked, not entirely pleased with the new colour scheme, but unwilling to argue on their first day in a new house together. And besides, it wasn't his eyes which would be subjected to it nightly.

But as Draco hugged him, murmuring babbled words of gratitude, Harry shrugged and reflected on the advantages of knowing when to gracefully back down. And as long as they remembered how to compromise, he could see their new situation working out very pleasantly indeed.


	2. Meet Mr Wesley

**Chapter 1: Meet Mr Wesley**

For five years, the building had sat on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, as its curtains frayed and old woodwork began to erode without the protection of wards long since removed. It was barely possible to read the paintwork in its sad condition, to make out the letters on the sign that hang almost mournfully in the wind. Once every few months, some well-meaning villager would suggest something be done about it, that it was an eyesore in the generally homey village; but, just as with the shrieking shack, most simply chose to ignore it.

Over a decade prior, Madame Puddifoot's had been a prime location for the teenagers that ventured into their village every other weekend, drawn to the almost sickeningly saccharine building like kneazles to cream (though, many of the villagers recalled, they too had done the same in their time). The… distinctive… decorating style of the owner, her eyesight failing with her years, had been as much a part of the village as the Three Broomsticks, though perhaps not as adored.

However, the growing darkness of the Second War had decreased the shops clientele, and when Madame Puddifoot herself passed on not long after the Dark Lord's defeat, it was hardly surprising that her grandson chose to discontinue the business. And, as the Wizarding World began to slowly recover, no one seemed inclined to purchase a cramped tea shop, falling apart through lack of care.

Which is why the villagers were surprised, when one fine day they heard sounds from within the shop. Strange banging sounds, like furniture was being moved –or thrown – about. Ripping, tearing, and even smashing. And the occasional sound of voices, or muffled laughter. But as hard as they tried, no villager could catch a glimpse through the boarded up windows, and they began to assume a poltergeist was at work, and wondered if it was at all linked to the sounds that once came from the fabled Shrieking Shack, many decades in the past.

Then, one bright summer morning, the villagers arose to see the site transformed. It was as if an illusion had been lifted, an illusion so subtly and expertly crafted that even the best among them could not sense its presence, for such work could not have been accomplished in a single night. And where the dilapidated skeleton of Madame Puddifoot's once stood, there appeared a cosy wooden building, with a clear glass front, smoke issuing from the rebuilt chimney, and a simple sign in golden lettering:

_CORNISH CAKES AND DELICACIES_

Overcome by curiosity, and perchance hoping to see some more of the powerful magic that had concealed such work from sight, if not sound, the villagers of Hogsmeade began to trickle into the café, which seemed simultaneously so familiar and so very different. The circular tables that once crowded the small dining room were gone, replaced by a couple of long benches that left a feeling of space, while fitting near as many people. The walls were papered in soft shades of blue and white, decorated with soothing scenes of country and ocean, leaving the visitors immediately relaxed, even in such strange surroundings.

And, from the large swinging door at the far end of the room, came the tantalising smell of food.

Each burning with curiosity, yet unwilling to be the first to speak, for several minutes the villagers milled in the bright and spacious room, murmuring quietly amongst themselves at the amazing change in the old building. Then, just as they were beginning to believe the place deserted, they heard the sound of footsteps, followed by the appearance at the door of a complete and total stranger.

Wizarding Britain, in itself, was a fairly small community, and Hogsmeade even more so. And, with their proximity to the institution where most magical youth were educated, it could easily be assumed that almost any magical individual in the country was known by someone. But not this man. From his long, black hair – a throwback to past generations, despite his middling age – to his hazel eyes and worn face, to the slight hitch in his leg, as though still suffering from old injuries, this man was a complete stranger, with the accent and attitude of an Englishman. It was strange.

Deliberately ignoring the concerted stares he was receiving, though certainly aware, the gentleman carried a steaming tray to the nearer of the two tables, easily dodging the customers to place it gently on the deep blue tablecloth, revealing a selection of unfamiliar yet appetising confections. His voice quiet, yet somehow easily reaching every ear, he said, "My name is Blake Wesley," before returning to what they now assumed to be the kitchen, without another word.

Sharing befuddled looks, the villagers nevertheless carefully tasted some of the new owner's confections. And, they admitted, though the man himself was confusing, the food was better than any Madame Puddifoot once served.

Weeks progressed, and before long you would be hard pressed to find a resident of Hogsmeade who was not known to frequent Mr Wesley's Café, sampling the very finest examples of danishes and strudels and some strange cake called profiteroles, numerous confections both sweet and savoury. But few saw much of the enigmatic Mr Wesley, who avoided every question, seeming to prefer to stay in his kitchen.

However, one thing confused the villagers more than anything else. For all that Mr Wesley certainly knew about the Wizarding world, and the frequent visits of the young defence professor indicated a friendship that the man, still viewed with some contempt towards his father's actions, would be unlikely to find with a muggle, Mr Wesley was never once seen to perform magic. Not in his cooking, for some of the younger children had dared venture into his kitchen to discover chopping boards and ovens and piles of dough and fruit, received through a weekly delivery using the _Knight Bus_ of all things. Not in his cleaning, for he could often be found with cloth and spray, hard at work on some irritating stain in the woodwork. Nor with carrying, or mending, or even warding, with the building seeming to look after itself, much to their bemusement.

No, the villagers eventually decided, shaking their heads in pity, this gentleman must be a squib, doomed to be trapped between two worlds, unable to fit in either. It was sad, to think of a man forced to spend his life doing everything the hard way, while about him his friends and neighbours achieved the same results so quickly. Because, of course, no Wizard would ever forsake magic, and muggle methods would most certainly never be superior…

Yes, Mr Blake Wesley was a squib, with the fortunate patronage of the very skilled Professor Malfoy allowing him to subsist in their world. And, for all that none of the villagers would ever follow Voldemort's ideals, they made little attempt to contact him after that, preferring to observe from afar.

And Mr Wesley preferred it that way.


End file.
